


You Just Gonna Stand There?

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [159]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Pining, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 14:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16177355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: “I’m not getting in the shower with you, Stark.”





	You Just Gonna Stand There?

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: I wanna shower you with everything. All my little lights, the morning dew on a flower in blue. I wanna show you in our kissing, that I'm yours. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

“I’m not getting in the shower with you, Stark.”

Tony blinks, his fingers caught under the hem of his t-shirt. “Of course you’re not. You clearly wanna ride the rest of the way home wearing demonic insect blood. Cool. Then I’m gonna ask Nat to blow you out the airlock and you can spend the rest of the trip strapped to the damn nose cone, because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this shit fucking _stinks_.”

Why they’re arguing about this, Tony honestly cannot fathom. The stuff is purple and it glows and it _burns_ and Tony had started jettisoning armor as soon as they ran into the cargo bay and that Barnes is just standing there glowering, letting the crap soak into his combat gear and his goddamn metal arm--surely that’s going to gum up the gears?--is making Tony question his sanity. And not for the first time.

Barnes glares at him, watches as Tony adds his t-shirt to the pile of Things That Now Must Be Killed With Fire without moving so much as a finger and truth be told, it’s a little hard to take the man seriously as a former mindless killing machine when he has that purple crap in his hair and one big glop oozing unceremonious down his chin.

Now Tony’s down to his briefs and the stink of the stuff is worse than ever, like bleach mixed with day-old margaritas made out of deviled eggs and if this is some kind of weird game of chicken Barnes thinks they’re playing, well, General Zhivago is about to fucking lose.

“Fine,” Tony snaps, “stand here and smell like you’re rotting for all I care. But you’re hosing this thing down when we get home.”

He yanks down his briefs and kicks them away and the second before he turns on his heel to stomp away, he gets a look at Barnes’ face: the pissed off has slipped a hair, just a touch, and beneath it (and the purple goo), to Tony’s surprise, Barnes has worked up a serious blush.

Huh.

But Tony’s need to be clean is a lot louder than his basic instinct to needle and so he gives Barnes his back, makes a beeline for the shower behind the weapons locker, and in his eagerness he almost misses it, the clank of something armored hitting the deck. Almost.

“Change your mind, Barnes?” he calls, one hand on the shower door.

Barnes grunts and strips off another gauntlet and it’s only when Tony climbs in and cranks up the water as goddamn hot as it will go that he starts to worry about how this, exactly, is going to work.

The shower’s narrow, not really built for two people, and the blessed relief of seeing the glowing goo slide off his skin and down the drain isn’t loud enough to drown the out the sudden realization that he’s about to be flesh to flesh with Bucky Barnes, Captain America’s best friend/monosyllabic semi-husband who is not, for all of his many, many faults, that unattractive. In fact, there are moments when he looks almost fetching, almost like a rock face that Tony would very much like to climb. Mostly, they’re moments when Barnes is looking at Steve, or standing close to him, or even cuddled up to his side, his head tipped against Cap’s shoulder, Cap’s face tucked into his hair.

They’re not a PDA kind of pair, as a rule, but Tony walked in on them kissing once in the gym. Steve had Barnes’ pinned on one of the sparring mats, his knees pressed on either side of Barnes’ hips, and what had startled Tony, stuck with him, was the shamelessness of it, the obvious joy they were taking in touching each other. Cap’s shirt had been translucent with sweat and Barnes’ hands were moving beneath it, flesh and death metal both, at the same pace as Steve’s dirty grind and they’d both been groaning, low, hungry sounds that Tony’s mindless dick had taken as an invitation to twitch, and the weirdest part of the whole thing was that Tony was sure that they’d heard him come in, they must have, heard the soft swish of the doors and his sneakers on the springfloor but they hadn’t stopped, hadn’t even stuttered, and he’d backed away, beat not-really-hasty retreat and locked the damn doors behind him. And maybe, one or twice or a dozen times, he’d let his fist transport him back to the that moment and wonder what might’ve happened if one of them had bothered to look up.

“God, Tony,” Cap said in these mental dioramas, jerking his chin at Tony, his mouth a wet mess and his eyes fucking blazing. “You just gonna stand there?”

“What Stevie means,” imaginary Barnes would groan, “is get your ass over here, Stark.”

And now, and _now_ , Tony has goaded--by necessity, ok? Because the situation demanded it--Barnes into stripping off and jamming his not-Cap sized but still A+ muscular body into this ridiculously small shower while Tony was still in it and jesus hell and fucking damn, he cannot, he will not, get hard.

He sticks his head under the spray and fumbles for the soap and prays--for guidance? For the goo to magically disappear? For his body not to listen to his imagination for once?--and it works up and until the second the tempraglass door opens and Barnes squeezes in.

Because, yes, ok, Barnes is gorgeous, even with the scowl on his face and alien _le sang_ on his (miles and miles) of skin, and even when Tony jams himself into the corner of the stall, such as it is, their bodies can’t help but brush.

“Soap?” Barnes says, tilting his face up towards the water. “And will this get any hotter?”

Tony hands over the bar--a French patchouli rose mix now flecked with slime. “I, ah--it’s on as high as it’ll go.”

Barnes washes like a soldier, efficient, scrubbing with a force and speed for which even the goo is no match. 30 seconds in, 60, and he’s 75% clean, a lot better off than Tony who had a good two minutes to himself, and it’s fine, watching Barnes rub himself down, watching his eyes flutter in bliss when the angle of the water’s just right, watching those strong fingers kneed through his dark, tangled hair, fine right up until the second Barnes turns his back to the spray and makes it impossible to ignore his very big and apparently very happy dick.

A sound leaks out of Tony’s mouth, something halfway between a sigh and a squeak.

“Sorry,” Barnes says, oblivious, his eyes closed, his hands busy scrubbing at small of his back. “Almost done.”

Their arms brush, their elbows, and Tony has to bite his lip to keep from saying something truly humiliating like _you’re beautiful_ or _let me touch you_ or oh god _you need a hand with that?_

“Stark?” Barnes opens his eyes, water dripping from the end of each lash. “You ok?”

“Eh,” Tony manages, which isn’t technically a lie. _Eh_ ’s a nice flexible word like that; somebody can read into it whatever they want.

“Oh,” Barnes says with a frown. “Yeah, I see that. Come here.”

And then he’s reaching and touching and turning them to face each other, the spray pounding equal opportunity into the sides of their shoulders. “You’ve got this shit in your hair still. Let me wash it out for you?”

“Blergh,” Tony says.

“Ok. Stand real still. You don’t want it to get in your eyes.”

There’s a low click as Barnes turns the soap in his hands and then he’s shoving it in the built-in dish and sliding his fingers into Tony’s hair.

“There,” Barnes says, his tone almost soothing. “That already looks less gross."

They’re standing so close that Tony can feel how hot Barnes’ cock is. It’s jutting up towards his stomach, the long, greedy curve barely a hair from Tony’s own, but Barnes isn’t apologizing, isn’t acting like it’s any big thing, so damned if Tony’s going to, no matter how hard he is, how much he’s dying to reach out and touch. As it is, his hands are useless, hanging in desolate fists at his sides, too heavy to lift, and his eyes are deadweight, too, unsure of where to settle or not.

“Rinse that,” Barnes says.

He lets go of Tony’s head and Tony hides his whimper under the water and there is 100% no way he’s getting out of this absurd situation without trading in some serious embarrassment chips, is there? His dignity isn’t making it out of this shower alive.

“Stark, can I ask you something?”

Tony coughs, sucks up some recycled water, spits most of it out. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

There’s a look on Barnes’ face he can’t quite read. “You take showers with all of your teammates?”

“What?”

“If Nat had gone down with you instead of me, if I was up there flying this thing and she was back here covered in goo--would you have asked her to shower with you?”

Um.

“Of course not,” Tony says, duh. “She’d have plowed me over and jumped in first. Probably used up all the hot water, too.”

“Uh huh. And what about Steve?”

“What about him?”

Barnes eases towards him, a tiny half step. “Same question. If he were here and not me, would you have invited him in?”

Honesty gets the better of him. Kind of hard to fib when you’re naked and wet and _mano a mano_. “Hell yes,” Tony says. “Even though he’d have said no. He’d have insisted on being a gentleman and made me go first.”

Barnes’ mouth slides towards a smirk. “You sure about that?”

“I mean--yeah. Probably.”

“But me, you figured that I’d say yes?”

Tony’s back hits the wall of the stall. “You, ah--you’ve always struck me as the practical type. Not one to let sentiment or a sense of personal discomfort knock you off the fastest way between two points.”

Barnes looms around him, his palms parked on either side of Tony’s head, his lips curled, his cock nuzzling Tony’s thigh. “And you wanted to see me naked.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. “I mean, I don’t--I don’t _mind_.”

“Me, either.” Barnes leans in and tips a kiss over Tony’s cheek. “And fuck, Stark, is Steve gonna be jealous that I got to see you.”

“Really? How about we go for broke, then?”

A hum. “What would you suggest?”

Tony turns his head and finds Barnes’ mouth, licks over his lips with rose-flavored ardor. “How about this?”

Barnes grins and gives Tony his tongue right back. “This is good. And how about”--his fingers slide down the wall and dance over Tony’s hip, ease over his thigh and slowly, slowly curl in--“how about I pull you off so I can tell Steve how pretty you look when somebody makes you come?”

Tony’s arms have a mind of their own; they’re up at last and wound around Barnes’ neck, a quick, eager squeeze. “Would he like that?”

“Mmm, he will.” Barnes hands him a stroke, long and aching, a growl that makes Tony shake. “Almost as much as you’re about to. I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...I mean, why wouldn't there be a shower on the Quinjet?


End file.
